


Psychosomatic

by holyfant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, M/M, Mind Palace, The Sign of Three Spoilers, but some of this turned out to be sort of canon so oops, technically no His Last Vow spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, Sherlock,” Irene says, sounding amused. “You think you're so complicated. Down here, all you really want is to be simple, don't you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psychosomatic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pasiphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Психосоматика](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3575120) by [Julia_Devi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julia_Devi/pseuds/Julia_Devi)



> Written for the incredibly lovely pasiphile for her birthday. Because it's what she likes. <3
> 
> This was written before I saw His Last Vow, so technically there are only spoilers up until TSoT - but this was a bit more predictive than I thought it would be, so tread carefully if you haven't seen HLV.

“Not busy _now_ , are you?” she says, breath warm and close by. His senses, tightened as they are into sharp points of want, make him almost jerk away from a sudden and unexpected touch of her palm to his back.

 

“Shhh,” she soothes, smoothing her hand over his bare skin in circles. 

 

“I _am_ busy, actually,” he says, once recovered. With a small gesture of will he can open his eyes – it is _his_ playground, after all – lashes brushing against the soft, sweaty material of the blindfold. “Take this off me,” he tries to command, but he's aware of his voice being shaky, of his muscles tensing up in anticipatory pleasure. Sitting like this in front of her, on all fours, ankles spread and shoulders tense, is immediately effective in taking away the normally so innate authority of his voice.

 

She's not fooled, of course. She never is – never here. “I'll take it off you when there's something here _I_ want you to see,” she says pleasantly, then she goes quiet for a long moment – three, four, five, six, _seven, please,_ Sherlock counts as he presses his eyes closed behind the blindfold, skin prickling with expectation. When her hand does finally come down on his arse with a loud _smack_ , he can't quite suppress the gasp. His body cants forward, cock steadily plumping up between his thighs. “In fact,” she says, and sounds musing rather than domineering, “I think _you_ 're the main attraction right now, darling.” She draws her finger over the slightly stinging imprint on his arse, then pinches it, which sends a delicious tiny jolt of pain through Sherlock's core. 

 

“Oh, don't mind me,” a lazily upbeat, familiar voice filters through Sherlock's increasingly hazy thoughts, and his eyes fly open again in the darkness of the blindfold.

 

“No,” he breathes, because he didn't – he never did – 

 

“But you did,” Irene says quietly into his ear. “Want to see?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head frantically – seeing is _being seen_ , so as long as he can't see... and she knows that, it's why she keeps him blindfolded so often – but she laughs a little, and he feels her fingers undo the silk knot on the back of his head. The blindfold, as it flutters to the floor, takes his feeling of protection with it. Suddenly, he feels very naked.

 

Moriarty, one leg hanging over the arm rest of the chair – no... _throne?_ – looks at them with an almost bored tilt of his head. He's wearing the Westwood he wore at the pool and that he wears in most of Sherlock's dreams, proper and chic, except for the bit where his fly is undone and the red, wet tip of his cock pokes out. A frisson of excitement, which might just as easily be fear, runs lightly up Sherlock's spine at the sight of him.

 

“I understand, Sherlock,” Moriarty says as he slowly palms himself. “I wouldn't be able to forget me either.” He smiles a sharp smile of teeth. “Suppose I should thank you for keeping me down here.”

 

“You're just going to sit there, are you?” Irene says, and clucks her tongue. Sherlock looks up at her from his position on his knees. She's not naked this time: she's wearing her black and red heels and a tailored suit that looks a lot like Moriarty's, tie and all. Sherlock makes a small sound of involuntary understanding that he can't stop, and both of them look at him with matching looks of precise, predatory interest.

 

“Yes,” Moriarty says slowly, eyes glittering. “Think I'll just watch this for now.”

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Irene says, sounding amused. She bends down to Sherlock's level and gathers his hair in her hands, running her fingers through the curls gently, rubbing circles on his scalp with her fingertips. “You think you're so complicated. Down here, all you really want is to be simple, don't you?” Without warning, she grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks on it, hard, pulling his head back on his neck and exposing his throat.

 

“Yes,” he gasps, lights popping behind his eyelids as he handles the burst of pain radiating out from his scalp and the endorphins that follow in its wake, making his cock throb and his muscles burn. He feels himself going down, to that place where he just needs to _listen_ , where everything _makes sense_.

 

“Dear me,” Moriarty says melodiously, and it takes Sherlock a second to realise that he's got up from his chair. “Now this is a sight.” He shares a smile with Irene that makes the hair on Sherlock's neck stand on end.

 

“Changed your mind?” she asks. “Thought you didn't like getting your hands dirty.”

 

“Stop complaining,” Moriarty says, and reaches out towards Sherlock's shoulder. He doesn't quite touch, though – Sherlock can feel the warmth of his fingers, but the touch is that of a ghost, and it makes him squirm a little. Moriarty giggles. “I know someone who would've been incredibly pleased to hear of this. _Sherlock_ _Holmes_.” He makes the name sound obscene, slippery. “So _pretty_.”

 

Sherlock, embarrassment and arousal burning together in his gut, tries to twist away from the almost-touch, which makes Moriarty giggle again. “Look at him.”

 

“He loves it,” Irene says, and gets to her knees in front of Sherlock. She takes his face into her hands, and he looks at her, deep in subspace, mouth relaxed and open and his eyes unfocused. “Don't you, Sherlock?”

 

“Yes,” he manages, and shivers when Moriarty's hand finally connects with his skin. Warm, dry, calluses that tell the stories of guns fired. Not a ghost at all, not here.

 

“Listen to me,” Irene says to Sherlock. “Jim's going to fuck your mouth until your jaw goes so sore you can't speak anymore. Because that's what you _want_ , isn't it? For things to be _quiet._ ”

 

“Please,” he agrees, hoarsely.

 

“I usually have him suck one of my dildos,” Irene says to Jim, smiling conspiratorially. “But since we've got the real thing here now... You don't even have to let him come. It's not about that.” Sherlock shivers at the words, at the way they talk about him like he's not even there. 

 

Moriarty gets back into his chair, which leaves Sherlock no choice but to crawl towards him on his hands and knees, the ankle spreader making it more difficult to navigate the distance. Irene is next to him, the slow clicking of her heels a steady support.

 

“Go ahead,” she encourages when he finally makes it across the room, and Sherlock reaches up after a moment's hesitation, running his hands up from Moriarty's knees to his thighs over the smooth fabric of his suit trousers. Moriarty is... almost _passive_ – he leaves his trousers on, only barely pulling them down his hips to accommodate Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's more clumsy than he usually would be, hindered by the fabric and the bite of the zipper into his bottom lip, but manages to take most of Moriarty's cock into his mouth. Moriarty hisses, and grabs the back of Sherlock's head with his hand, forcing him closer. The first movements of his hips are small and careful, but Sherlock can take it – he always can, here, here he can do _anything_ – and soon Moriarty is fucking upwards into his mouth, the head of his cock pushing into Sherlock's soft palate. Sherlock takes it, jaw slack and stretching, the busy traffic of his brain slowing and slowing and skidding to a stop as he slips ever deeper, as he swallows around Moriarty's cock with a growing, practised eagerness. Irene is behind him, gently holding him in place with a chaste, warm touch of her hands to his shoulders to remind him of his place – this, _here_.

 

Moriarty finally comes, nearly without a sound. His fingertips dig into Sherlock's skull to the point of blissful pain, and his hips jerk in an almost controlled, minimal way. He pushes into Sherlock's mouth until Sherlock is gagging on his cock, and when Moriarty finally lets out the tiniest, tiniest groan and pushes Sherlock off rather forcefully, Sherlock falls back against Irene's legs and coughs violently, nearly choking on the sudden feeling of freedom, of floating.

 

“How's that, then,” Irene asks softly, the question far more for comfort than for genuine curiosity. She bends down and rubs a finger over the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

 

“Nnng,” Sherlock tries, a hand curled back around one of Irene's calves, but his mouth deserts him. Suddenly, he's taken by a fit of silent, helpless laughter, and he muffles it with his fingers against his spit-and-come-wet lips. Irene looms over him – her smile is soft and knowing.

 

“You're welcome,” she says, already receding, and he can still faintly feel her fingers against his mouth.

 

-

 

“Hey, you okay?” John's far-off voice is saying. Sherlock focuses his eyes on him – John's cheeks are shining with frost, and he's peeling off his jacket with uncooperative, numb fingers. “Didn't you hear me come up? Were you – down there again?”

 

Sherlock stretches, limbs heavy, head still woolly. “I'm fine,” he says, and allows himself a small smile.


End file.
